


thoughts of you consume

by johnllauren



Series: wrong in the dark [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Arguing, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Making Out, Moral Ambiguity, Politics as Foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren
Summary: Russia’s eyes flick down to America’s lips, and America accepts that as invitation enough, so he leans forward and kisses him.The Soviet Union is different from Russia. As much as America wants to fool himself, continues referring to the Soviet Union as Russia in his head, there is a difference. He’s confronted with that difference constantly, every time he looks at Russia, but the war has forced him to get used to that burning feeling in his gut that comes with noticing the difference.The difference is never as obvious as it is when they kiss.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Series: wrong in the dark [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1325636
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	thoughts of you consume

**Author's Note:**

> why do so many of my rusame fics take place during the yalta conference. why do i use my history degree to write fic for a fandom that was last active in like. 2016. many questions.   
> anyway this takes place during the yalta conference

America runs his hands through his hair for what must be the billionth time today. He sits on the edge of the king-sized bed that had been made fastidiously by a maid at some point during the day, likely while he was sitting in a meeting stressed out of his mind. He doesn’t dare lie down yet, let his guard down in any way yet. 

He’s still dressed in his scratchy button down and fancy pants, his shoes still on. After thinking about it, he bends down to untie them. The clothes are excusable, but shoes? 

Russia would think he’d been in here since the meeting ended, sitting in the same place, thinking. 

Russia would be right. 

The knock at the hotel room’s door came around midnight, as America expected. He’d had a few days to adjust to the time zone change, but it wasn’t that hard: he’s spent the last four years running on an average of three hours of sleep per night. He was used to the perpetual state of exhaustion. 

“Come in.” America says. 

Russia enters. “You should really lock that door.” 

“I lock it when I leave. It’s not like anyone comes in here besides you and my boss.” He’s already being defensive. 

Russia shrugs. He’s also still wearing his dress clothes, and he toes his shoes off next to the door. “Good evening, solnishko.” 

America _hates_ the way that word makes him feel. The way it reminds him of a much better time, dancing together at the Winter Palace, those countless nights they would spend together at the cabin in Alaska… hands and teeth and an easy ( _well, easier_ ) life and Russia. 

“It’s nice to see you.” America says. 

“We just saw each other. At meetings all day.” 

Well, so much for sentimentality. 

America stands, adjusts his shirt self-consciously, and approaches Russia. “Meetings all day, and you still want to talk about policy at night.” He runs his hands over Russia’s lapel, straightening it though it doesn’t need to be straightened. He just wanted a reason to touch him. 

“There are some matters that feel more private. Deserving of a one-on-one… conversation.” Russia says, voice almost a whisper now, their faces only inches from each other. 

“Like what?” America asks. He’s looking up at Russia, now, making eye contact. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were about to kiss.

Russia places his hands on America’s hips, and America shivers. “The war with Japan.” 

Of course. They both know this is a point of contention between them; Russia wants to enter into this conflict about as much as America _doesn’t_ want him to, and America will do _anything_ to keep Russia out of it. And that anything involved something that would’ve made America sick to his stomach five years ago. 

How quickly things change. 

“I don’t need your help with that.” America says, as if either of them believe that Russia would enter the conflict as a humanitarian, like he was doing America a favor. As if Russia doesn’t want the territory and influence that would come with victory. 

Over America’s dead body. 

“If you really didn’t need my help, you’d be winning already.” Russia raises an eyebrow. 

America scowls at him. “So now you’re a fucking elitist because you’re winning faster? Let me remind you who has the _advantage_ of two fronts-”

“Say the word and you’ll get two fronts, Fedya.” 

“That’s not what I want! Just - God - fuck off back to your own continent and get out of my war!”

Russia rolls his eyes. “That’s _rich_ coming from you.”

“Jesus Christ, _fuck_ you.” America says, running a hand through his hair in agitation. 

“That can be arranged.” Russia responds, raising an eyebrow because he still hasn’t learned how to wiggle them, something that still makes America’s stomach do a backflip despite everything. 

“Just… stop talking.” 

Russia’s eyes flick down to America’s lips, and America accepts that as invitation enough, so he leans forward and kisses him. 

The Soviet Union is different from Russia. As much as America wants to fool himself, continues referring to the Soviet Union as Russia in his head, there is a difference. He’s confronted with that difference constantly, every time he looks at Russia, but the war has forced him to get used to that burning feeling in his gut that comes with noticing the difference. 

The difference is never as obvious as it is when they kiss.

The Soviet Union kisses differently than Russia (though perhaps that’s just America projecting). The love and care that used to be there, the way Ivan would hold Alfred’s neck like they were doing something holy, was replaced with cold, with something that wasn’t quite hatred but burned like it nonetheless. America hated it, detested it, but he couldn’t stop - there wasn’t a single atom in his body that would let him stop. As long as Russia wanted to kiss him, he would be there to kiss back. 

(Perhaps France would have something to say about that, at the very least have a long talk with America about it, but France _isn’t here_ right now, and thinking about his sort-of-father is the most surefire way to kill whatever mood they’re establishing right now.) 

Russia’s lips are familiar, at least, after all the years America has spent kissing them. He relishes in it, even if it isn’t gentle like it used to be, because in the end he is still Alfred and Russia is still (he hopes) Ivan and that’s all he needs. America kisses like this is what his life depends on, like he doesn’t remember a time he’s genuinely felt _relaxed_ since ‘29, like this is his relief, his pleasure, the only thing keeping him going. 

When Russia breaks away, he’s smiling. America would call it malicious if he didn’t know better. “Desperate, are you?” He asks. 

“Shut up and kiss me.” America says, pulling him back in, wrapping his arms around Russia’s back. 

Russia kisses him back, their lips slotting together obscenely. His tongue plays with America’s bottom lip, and America gives in, leans into it, lets Russia’s tongue enter his mouth. Russia seems to relish in it, explores America’s mouth as if he doesn’t already know it all too well. And the kiss might be different, but Russia’s mouth is still the same, and America still believes that if he tries hard enough he can trick himself into thinking they’re still in that cabin all those years ago. 

Russia’s hands reach America’s hair, entwining themselves in it, and it feels _good._ America presses closer to Russia, if that’s possible, hands moving to Russia’s hips to keep him there, keep him close. Russia responds with his teeth, biting America’s bottom lip. It makes America gasp into the kiss, and Russia smiles against his lips. 

“Bed,” Russia says, only centimeters away from America’s lips like he also can’t stand the distance between them. 

But America would rather die than submit to Russia (at least not this early in their rendezvous) so instead he begins to unbutton his dress shirt, taking a ridiculously long time as he tries to stop his hands from visibly shaking - from excitement or adrenaline or want, he doesn't know. 

“Is that as fast as you can go?” Russia asks, taunting, testing. But America doesn’t respond. He shrugs off his suit jacket, pulls the dress shirt over his head because he doesn’t feel like undoing the last three buttons, and removes his undershirt. Russia’s eyes never leave his torso, and Russia’s gaze is hungry, looking over America’s bare skin and licking his lips and America shivers just thinking about the marks that’ll be there in the morning. The ones Russia left there two days ago have just begun to fade. 

Russia, for his part, rips off his dress shirt without concern and tosses it onto the floor unceremoniously. America thinks briefly about Russia’s failing economy, but says nothing, because he is not in the mood for that kind of fight. 

Only once he’s stripped does America move toward the bed, and Russia follows him. He sits, first, like an awkward little boy, but Russia doesn’t seem to mind. Russia kisses him again, a hand on the back of his neck, and America gives himself into the kiss completely, placing his hands on Russia’s hips and drawing Russia closer, closer. 

Russia moans into the kiss and America’s heart flutters and then Russia’s hands are on his shoulders, coaxing him back until he’s lying down. America’s ready to feel Russia’s weight on top of him, more than ready for the friction that he’s already dying for, but he doesn’t get it. Instead, Russia suspends himself over America, arms on either side of his face. As much as it’s teasing and unfair, there’s a very large part of America that can’t help but find it hot. 

“Kiss me.” Russia says.

America glares up at him as if he hasn’t already given up control. “Come to an agreement with England about Poland first.”

“Get your nose out of European affairs.” Russia responds, his voice low and grainy, threatening. 

“That’s why I told you to take it up with England.” America says, voice equally as low, but it’s breathy enough that he’s betraying his own desire. 

Russia shakes his head. “Do you ever stop thinking about politics?”

_Russia should know. He should know that America almost never thinks of politics, that this war has changed him more than he would like to admit. But he doesn’t notice._

“Make me.” America says. 

That gets America the contact he had so craved, as Russia lets their bodies touch, and then America’s world is overwhelmed by the feeling of skin-to-skin and he revels in it, kisses Russia with everything in him. Russia kisses back and it’s eager, wanting, like even he can’t hold back. America moans, loud and wanton from the back of his throat, and Russia pulls back. 

“Already hot for me?” He asks, and he smiles an almost-malicious grin. The slang sounds a little awkward on his tongue, but America doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

“Fuck off.” America responds.

**Author's Note:**

> if this seems like it ended abruptly its bc I wrote it in April and never got around to finishing it but i still wanted to post it bc i know I'll never get back around to it. 
> 
> my tumblr: lafayettesass


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